‘Major Gerald Alderley, I arrest you in the name of the King. ’ Relaxing back, Gerald folded his arms. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. ‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés.
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